May 10, 2020

Corned Beef

This story is about someone being funnier than me. Doesn’t happen often. But when it does, I like to give credit, however reluctantly, where credit is due.

Although, to be fair, I’m not actually going to use his real name. But seeing as the only people who read these stories are people I know, you will all figure out who I am talking about. Which, frankly, is not all that funny for me.

Were anyone else writing this story, it would rightly be one of survival. It would be one of miracle. But that is not my story to tell. I don’t write those stories. Had I been at the parting of the Red Sea, my story would have been about finding a shekel on the beach. That would have been my miracle. Or about having to walk a mile down the beach so I could find somewhere to pee in private. So if you are looking for redemption or acts of God, you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m just here to write this bit.

This person who is funnier than me is a childhood friend. He is an ex-roommate. We played basketball together. He still likes to call me Aaron.

In order to write this bit, I first have to talk about some unpleasant things. It is going to seem like I am glossing them over. That I don’t think they are important. That is not true. But, like I said, it is not my story to tell. I am only providing a little bit of context. So here it is. My friend got the coronavirus. Was on a respirator for over two weeks. Was in a coma for more. Had a cranial bleed. Had bouts of delirium. Was unable to speak. When he could speak, it was only to spout obscenities. Then he got better. And then, as if nothing had happened, he, once again, was funnier than me.

So you can understand why I might be a little pissed off.

I mean, I’m happy he is alive and all that, but one minute he is in a coma and the next he is funnier than me.

It is a bit of a kick in the balls.

My friend has a lot of other friends. When we heard he was sick, we began a tradition of having a Zoom l’chayim, toast of scotch, on Friday afternoons. We would make our jokes, drink our scotch, and get updates on his condition. A couple of the guys gave us prayers to recite. I don’t pray and I don’t drink scotch, but every Friday, I did both. Closed my eyes, put my hand on my head to hold down an imaginary kippah, and threw my head back and downed the burning liquid. Sometimes the news was hopeful and encouraging. Other times, not as much. None of us were doctors, but those we talked to were grim.

He is on the strong respirator. He is on the regular respirator. We celebrate. He is back on the strong respirator. We Google things we don’t want to Google. We tell our jokes. We drink our scotch. We say our prayers. Our friend is not 88. He does not have pre-existing conditions. He is all of us. We drink our scotch. We say our prayers. We wash our hands.

And then some glimmer of hope. A friend of a friend heard of a thumbs-up. Of a laugh. Of a brief conversation. One of the boys is in charge of giving us updates. But those updates are not enough. It is a small community. It is a tight community. “I heard from a friend of his wife,” says one. “My sister is a good friend of his brother,” says another. “Have you heard? Any news?” And then more progress. “You heard he was sitting up and made a joke?” I text it to 20 people. Then to 20 more. One day, one of the boys emails the group and says, “Guess who I just spoke to.” That was on my birthday. Best present ever! Then another gets a call. A message left at his office. He can’t get over it. “How the fuck does he remember my office number?”

Then we all had our turns. He sounded good. Sounded strong. Funny, even. I told him I had had chest pains while running this past winter. Thought I might have angina. But the nuclear test gave me the all-clear. The cardiologist said it was more likely I die of gonorrhea.

My friend said, “Let me get this straight. Are you trying to one-up me? I was dead twice.”

Okay. Funny.

But funnier than me?

C’mon. Let’s be serious.

I ask my brother if he has spoken to our friend. He said he tried him but he didn’t pick up. “Let me try him again.” He calls and puts it on speaker. Our friend picks up on the first ring. My brother says, “Where the hell have you been? I have been trying you all day.” Our friend says, “Sorry, buddy, you have to catch me between my sponge baths.”

Fuck.

That was funny.

And then my brother says our next Zoom will have a special guest. But his camera is taking a little time to work, so we only have audio. I say, “We don’t need to see his face, because we can look at Brian in order to see someone who looks like he just got out of a coma.”

That gets a good laugh.

Then the camera kicks in and there is our friend. He is wearing a Raptors hat. They have shaven his two-month beard so we miss seeing his Grizzly Adams look. He has lost a few pounds, but when he stands, he still looks like a former six-foot-two basketball player.

Everyone is doing material. We are all fighting for attention.

Someone makes the mistake of saying he looks and sounds the same as before. The rest of us quickly and unapologetically make it clear we don’t necessarily think that’s a good thing. We are 13 again. The jokes haven’t improved. But they are our jokes.

Then someone asks if he is back on real food. My friend says yes. He says he is craving a corned beef sandwich. Could someone drive downtown to the rehab center and sneak one in?

“First guy to bring me a corned beef sandwich,” says my friend, who recovered from COVID, who was on a respirator, who was in a coma, who had a cranial bleed, who couldn’t speak, “First guy who brings me a corned beef sandwich gets a year’s worth of my antibodies.”

Now that is funny.

Funnier than me.

So welcome back, my friend.

But fuck you.

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

The end.